Just Another Body in Your Wake
by Blindgumby
Summary: Delta manages to bring Sinclair back to life. How will they adjust to life topside upon waking from the Rapture dream?  Delta/Sinclair, mentioned Jack/Atlas, rating will go up


Just Another Body in Your Wake

Sofia Lamb has gone too far.

Her words cut as deeply as they can. Sinclair makes it easy on me, though, encouraging me to put him out of his misery, trying his damndest to not fight back.

_Can you even process what has happened? Sinclair has died for the Family; a selfless act. Do you understand the loss of a friend? Or was he ever a friend to begin with? A friend, or a tool, befitting the means to your end? Just another body in your wake..._

Sinclair was a friend, not merely a tool. He was coming to save me when he was ambushed, forced into a suit, forced to fight, forced to die.

No.

Our time is limited now, I have to ensure Eleanor's survival, but I can't let my friend be buried, drowning with the likes of them, into the sea's abyss, to deteriorate and be forgotten.

He deserves better. And so I set one sister to work while the rest of them are helping Eleanor with the lifeboat, while I'm fighting off splicers, to gather a sample of his DNA and feed it into the Vita-Chamber. He's cold and white and very, very dead. The chances of it working are slim, but damn if the odds do nothing more than encourage me to fight that much harder.

And there's a blast, sends the girl rocketing, shocked but unharmed back into my arms. The light of the chamber flickers and then there he is. Still in the suit.

But no longer under Sofia's control.

"Kid..." He says, taking deep measured breaths within the suit, and he shoots a splicer just over my shoulder with a rivet gun, just as Eleanor gives us the signal to head for the elevator.

But Dr. Lamb has one more surprise for us, in the form of explosives blocking our path to the boat.

Sinclair is blocking my body with his before I can even process what's going on and Eleanor spins, grabbing him.

He wrenches my arm into his back, firmly.

We disappear in a puff of purple smoke.

When I come to, it is Eleanor standing over me, her and twelve or so Little Sisters, including the one that helped me rig the Vita Chamber.

My daughters.

Sinclair is wearing some semblance of normal clothing, sitting on the edge, staring down into the ocean, his diving suit and helmet sitting beside him on the surface of the boat.

Sofia Lamb stands apart, watching.

And Brigid Tenenbaum is holding another little girl.

Eleanor is overjoyed, throwing her arms around me and exclaiming, "Father! We did it!"

Sinclair looks up at me then, his face cracking into a smile as I force myself upright.

Tenenbaum crouches beside me and says, "Thank you. The Little vones. You have saved so many. I will repay you the best way I know how. Ven ve reach the lighthouse, I vill perform a surgery or two, seperating you from ze suit, and I shall see vat ve can do about your vocal cords."

For some reason, Sinclair looks even happier than he did a moment before.

"Looks like you got yourself a perfect ending there, sport," Sinclair says, giving a little half-smile, "Glad to see my partner back in business."

I grunt in reply. I hope I can do more soon.

Sofia Lamb is still watching, with disdain.

I am sedated for the sugeries, and when I wake in the darkness of the lighthouse, a disturbing visage of Andrew Ryan above my head, I feel healed. I can see my skin for the first time in at least ten years. I am a pale greenish white.

My organs were not modified to the suit in the way that the later models were. I was stitched to it in a few critical places, to ensure the security of the suit itself. There are faint scars around my neck, my elbows, my wrists, my waist, my thighs, my knees, my ankles. Matching circles, red and angry with the salty sea air, marking me.

Tenenbaum assures me that Iceland isn't far; most of the inhabitants speak English and can help us if we merely say our ship was wrecked.

Ryan has been rotting in his office with half a putter lodged in his cranium for a little less than a decade. Even if the surface world knew about Rapture, Sofia would be the only one left to pay for Ryan's crimes, and frankly, none of us care enough about her at this point to be bothered.

As Eleanor said to me once, the Rapture dream is over, and in waking, we are reborn. Her mother's philosophies, ingrained into her thought process since infancy are, for the most part, utter rubbish. But maybe this is the best way to put it all behind us; pretend it was a dream and move on the best we can.

I fade in and out of conciousness for an indeterminable amount of time.

When I wake, Sinclair is looking at me like I'm something sacred, and it lights a fire in my chest, spreading to color my cheeks. I feel like death warmed over, and am actually not much better off than the term implies. I do not deserve to be revered in this way.

When I try to speak, I find that I can, "Sinclair," being all a can manage, though, before I lapse into a coughing fit.

He looks at me and I look back, both of us stunned.

"Ve did not cut your tongue, I recall," Tenenbaum offers by way of explanation, "The last time I... assist in the creation of a Big Daddy, ve use the same device ve used for you. Vich merely debilitated your vocal cords for a time. The damage vas easily reversable. But I vouldn't reccommend talking regularly vor some time. Only ven you need to. Understood?"

I nod and she gives me a small smile, probably all she can manage anymore.

Sinclair is grinning, mouth stretched so far open I fear it will tear. Before he can speak again, Eleanor bounds in and hugs me, and I forget for awhile in my daughter's arms.

We make it to Iceland within four silent hours, my new body fascinating the Little Sisters and Sinclair and Lamb alike. I allow their attention although I find my slim, scarred, and pale figure shameful and sometimes even repugnant. Tenenbaum is unaffected, which doesn't bother me as it makes her command of the ship unerring.

We are helped to find a place to stay, buying out a large boardhouse for the night once Sinclair produces some American cash. It is a five bedroom; Tenenbaum and Eleanor to one room, four girls apiece to the other three, and one for Sinclair and myself. Lamb refuses to stay with us.

In all honesty, it seems that in the face of her shattered philosophy, she is likely to end her life. It is bad of me not to care, but she had me kill many people, innocent or not, including myself and the closest thing I had to a friend, so I feel justified. Eleanor saved her life once; what she chooses to do with it from here is her own decision.

I find, when Sinclair and I are alone in the room, I cannot sleep. My heart thrums, and I stare in the mirror in our adjoined bathroom. I am not perfect, by any means. The scars that mark me will likely be there forever, though they are less prominent than they were directly after the surgery. There are dark, long circles under my eyes, and they are very sensitive to light. The longer I stare at my skin, the greener it seems. I run my fingers over my ribs, each one obvious underneath my pallid flesh. I used to be toned and fit, and while I'm still quite muscular - mainly to the credit of all the genetic tonics forced on me before becoming a big daddy - I'm also very obviously malnourished.

"Excuse me," Sinclair says, knocking on the half-closed door, "but I'd like to take a shower if that's alright."

I nod and stand aside, enough for him to come in. I continue to stare myself down.

"Most of the wear and tear will slack off after a few showers and good night's sleep," he says, encouraging, "You'll see, sport. Say, what's your real name? Was it Johnny?"

"John," I manage to croak out.

"Ah, not one for nicknames," he nods grinning, "Let me shower, kid, and then we'll talk over our plans."

-~-  
>I find another bathroom in the hall and shower as well. A lot of the grime comes off, some of my skin even peels away from the warmth, leaving me pink and tender. I wash with the soap provided, thankful that the water doesn't carry the briny scent of the ocean. We are, after all, a few miles from the coast at this point. We left Lamb at the dock and headed inland. I think Sinclair sensed my hatred for the place, Tenenbaum's as well.<p>

She's a brave woman, much braver than I am.

I thought I was brave when I went deep sea diving, thought I was brave when I found Rapture, thought I was brave when they made me into some kind of hero in the papers.

I suppose, at my core, there is strength. I am still alive, after all. And even if had died, I would've been able to save Eleanor and Sinclair and Tenenbaum. And those little girls. That's all that really matters.

But I just let them do as they pleased to me, in Rapture. Let them arrest me because I was a threat, made no attempt to escape. I remember that now. I wish I didn't.

There is a knock at the door, Eleanor wishing me goodnight. I want to answer but the humidity of the shower makes my throat sting.

I dress, and by the time I'm in proper pajamas, my legs are shaking. I stumble into the bedroom, and he's immediately there, propping me up, guiding me to the king size bed we'll have to share.

"Woah, there," He says, softly, sitting beside me, "You alright?"

I nod, then shake my head. "Weak," I say, and my voice cracks.

"No," he replies, stern, "You're not. You're anything but weak. You need to be patient with yourself, that's all. Your body will catch up to you in time. You just need to sleep."

"Plans?"

"Over breakfast, tommorow," Sinclair promises as he helps me under the covers, "I'll pull out all the stops, make you a grand Southern feast."

It isn't hard to fall asleep with him breathing beside me, and the feeling of Eleanor's steady heartbeat not too far off.

True to his word, I wake to the smell of bacon, the bed neatly made on Sinclair's side. Downstairs, the dozen odd girls are crowded around the long, formal dining table.

Tenenbaum is already smiling, already happy again, "Iceland is lovely, so bizzare. Sinclair vent to market and bought supplies by the pound! Und so cheap, too!"

I look over at Sinclair, who is busy over the stove, apron and all. He looks back at me and grins, "Morning, sport. Andy may've had a problem with American policy, but he had no problem using their cash. American cash, luckily, is good most anyplace."

I manage a slight upturn of the corners of my mouth in reply, and say again, "Plans?"

Sinclair hands me a plate loaded down with bacon, busicuits with gravy, eggs and...

"Grits," he says, noting my dubious expression, "Southern delicacy, my friend. Trust me."

I sit at the table with the girls, when Eleanor comes padding down the stairs, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, "G'd morning everyone," she says with a yawn, stopping to hug me.

The affection feels odd, but I suppose I'll just have to get used to it.

Sinclair passes her a plate, then Tenenbaum, finally making one for himself and sitting at the head of the table, "So the plan, De -John, is this," he says, looking uncomfortable about getting my name wrong, "We've got this house for the rest of this week. I still have a little chunk of land in Georgia, some money saved. A house. Nothing special. Tenenbaum is taking the girls with her to a friend. Someone with experience in these matters. We can escort her, it'll be on the way, more or less. And you and Eleanor are welcome to stay with me indefinitely."

"Can we take a plane?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

He blinks at me, looking sad for some reason. Then, he smiles, "Of course, John. We can take a plane and leave the windows closed during the flight. That actually sounds a lot less...scary for everyone involved," he says with a meaningful glance at the little ones.

Tenenbaum is looking between us like she knows something's wrong.

Sinclair and Eleanor take the girls out to play, while Tenenbaum and I go to the market to find suitable clothes for myself and the girls.

"Please, Herr Delta, call me Brigid," she says, smiling, and then realizes her mistake.

"Call me John," I reply and she nods.

"Your woice is certainly coming along," she says, offering me a deep blue buttondown shirt. I examine it and decide it's good enough.

"Yes," I say.

"Sinclair is more trustworthy than I gave him credit for," Tenenbaum says softly, "He seems to genuinely care for you."

I flinch. It would seem that way, what with the unnecessary physical contact and the offering Eleanor and I a place to stay, but for some reason, I feel uneasy about trusting him. All the audio diaries of his that I found painted him as manipulative, and though he was loyal, quite literally to the death, I still fear being wrong about him.

"Trust is a hard thing to come by, especially for people like us," she looks at me longways as she rifles through little dresses, finally deciding to pick three of each color and pajamas, then Eleanor's clothes and a nightgown, then me.

"I could share clothes with Sinclair," I offer, then flinch again.

"You could," she nods in assent as she continues to rifle through the clothes, "If you veren't a gut five inches taller than him."

I swallow and nod.

"Please, John. Ze clothes and surgery, zey are the least I can do."

She still looks at me as if she knows something I do not.

I'm so on edge that by the time we get back to the boarding house, I nearly expect the police officer standing on the front porch, talking lowly with Sinclair.

The news is equally expected.

Sofia Lamb's body was collected from the wharf we'd arrived at. They found a picture of Eleanor on her person, and one of the fishermen remembered giving us a ride into town, so they were led straight to us. According to the officer, the damage to Sofia's Lamb's body indicates that she either fell or jumped into the water. No one is surprised.

Eleanor still cries though. Sinclair holds her as her body wracks with sobs, collapsed on the front porch of our temporary home. I sit on her other side and stroke her hair. Sinclair gives me a look I cannot understand, and Tenenbaum begins working on herding the girls back into the house that were alarmed by the sound of Eleanor crying.

She has cried herself to sleep in Sinclar's arms. He looks to me again, and nods at me to carry her up the stairs, which he knows I'll be able to do without difficulty. I take her and leave her on the bed, and Tenenbaum assures me she'll be able to change her into some pajamas without waking her, giving me yet another unreadable look.

It has been a long day, so I collect some of my own new pajamas and hit the shower. When I come back to the room Sinclair and I share, he is undressing, pajama's laid out on the bed.

"I... uh," I clear my throat, "You aren't going to shower?"

He shakes his head and pulls off his shirt, "Too tired, sport. Too damn tired."

And then I notice the scars, criss-crossing across his robust, pale chest, spread haphazardly over his arms, and my gasp must carry because he looks over and, of all things, laughs. "What," he says, "You think I had it easy, getting to you? There were splicers everywhere, kid, you know that. Rapture's no picnic. Not to mention the number you and young Eleanor did on me."

I have crossed the room before I can really process it, my hand resting lightly on his right arm, where a scar that looks like it was probably left by a rivet is clearly defined in his sallow skin. "I did this to you, Sinclair?" I ask, quiet, reverent.

"Call me Augustus," he says, "My sirname was one of the most talked about in Rapture. I'd like to try and forget that place for a while," his eyes meet mine again, "Surely you understand, John?"

"Yes," I say, breathless for some reason, "I understand."

He clears his throat and rests his left hand on top of mine. I just continue to stare down at him.

"I think I will have that shower after all, sport," he says lightly, "Tenenbaum or I will take care of breakfast tomorrow."

"I..." I stop and stare at him. I don't know what to say.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, Sincl...Augustus. And thank you," I say, giving his arm a sqeeze. He takes a step back and the moment, whatever it was, slips away.

"Goodnight, John," he says.

I am asleep when Sinclair finally gets out of the shower.

I am having a nightmare, and I'm aware that's all it is. Just the recollection of losing Eleanor to Sofia Lamb that night, nearly ten years ago. Being hypnotized, having no control, as I lifted the pistol she provided, put it to my head and pulled the trigger on her orders.

It doesn't erase the fact that this was once real. I did once put a bullet in my head in front of my dear, sweet Eleanor because her mother couldn't stand a lack of control.

Naturally, I wake up the moment I pull the trigger, Eleanor's horrified face freshly painted in my mind as I shoot up in bed, covered in cold sweat. Looking around for my daughter, panicked. Sinclair stands there, looking down at me, eyes communicating a surprising depth of sympathy as he towels off his hair.

The mattress dips with his weight, and in a moment he is holding me, the same way he held Eleanor earlier that day, stroking my hair and rocking me, slowly, shushing me.

I sob into his shoulder, a little ashamed. I've killed countless people, I've probably been to hell and back, and I can't hold it together in front of him. At least the girls can't see me like this, broken and scared and hopeless.

"You're fine, Eleanor's fine, here we are, far from the ocean and safe. It was just a dream," Sinclair says quietly into my hair.

"It was real once," I mumble into his shoulder.

"What was?" he asked, still stroking my hair.

I lean back, away from him and look him in the eye. I don't want to dredge up old memories and he said he wanted to forget his life in Rapture, but at the same time, he did ask. And I feel like I will die if I keep it inside.

"The night of the New Year's revolt," I begin, "I'd taken Eleanor out to harvest. And we were attacked by some splicers. One of them managed to use a hypnotize plasmid on me. It turned out, Sofia Lamb had paid them off to kidnap Eleanor. She felt she had to kill me. So she handed me a pistol..." I take a shuddering breath, "And ordered me to put it to my head and pull the trigger. While Eleanor," I can't finish, I realize, as hot tears streak down my face.

But he understands, and guides me to lay down as he continues to hold and rock me, gently wiping the tears away.

"I'm so weak," I whisper, breathing deeply against his shoulder.

"No," he replies, firmly, "You're not. You're anything but weak. You saved all of us, John. Mostly by your own power. You were afraid, but you pulled through. Rapture will haunt you as long as you let it. But you have things to live for again, you have a future here, with Eleanor and I. Tenenbaum and the girls."

"Yeah, sport. You and me and Eleanor, we'll have a farm out in Georgia, raise some chickens, some cows, horses, pigs... on acres upon acres of dry land. And you can forget rapture, and we'll raise Eleanor up good and she'll fall in love and get married. The wedding will be beautiful. They'll build a house on our land and have lots of grandbabies for you to coddle. And..." his voice goes quiet as he runs a hand through my hair, a soft gasp when he finds the protruding scar the bullet left. He strokes it with his fingertips, gently, and I shudder, "And we'll grow old together, you and me. Well, older than what I already am," he chuckles, "And I'll take care of you."

"Take care of me," I whisper, and he kisses me once, gently, his lips pressing against mine so light and quick that it might've been a dream. But I am tunnelled into a deep, dreamless sleep before I can really consider it.

I've forgotten the kiss by the time I wake up. Again, Sinclair is up before I am, rattling around downstairs. I dress and head down to find I'm the only other person besides him who is awake. And, noting that the sun is barely out, it's no wonder.

When he turns around and notices me, he won't meet my eyes as he says, "I didn't mean to wake you."

And then I remember.

"It's fine," I say, "I don't think you did. Maybe just the light coming in through the window. I can sleep through just about any sound, but light, on the other hand, makes it damn near impossible."

He nods and focuses fully on the stove in front of him, making himself look far more busy than he actually is. "Hotcakes today," he says, trying to sound conversational, but it comes out terse and hollow.

I cross the room slowly, surely, and put a hand on each shoulder as his back is still turned.

"Augustus," I say, quietly, "Look at me."

He turns, slowly, and says, "I'm sorry about that, kid. Last night? I just... I just thought you needed to be comforted, and I didn't really know what to do. It, uh...it didn't mean anything. Not that you aren't... Er. I just don't want you to get the wrong idea about me, sport. Alright?"

No, I want to say. But he doesn't look sad or reproachful, maybe just embarassed and a little disgusted. So I keep my mouth shut.

He turns back to tending the bacon without waiting for an answer and my hands tremble as they slide away from his shoulders, clenching into weak fists at my side.

"Oh," I say, "Alright."

I am retreating much faster than would be normal, out the front door and walking the main road into town. Just wanted some cold, fresh air, I tell myself as I continue to walk at a brisk pace, hands still clenched futilely.

It is noon and I am sitting in the park of the small town, watching children play in the distance from my bench. I am startled when Eleanor sits down beside me.

"Father," she says, "Here you are."

"I wanted some fresh air," I respond.

"You've been gone nearly six hours. I doubt fresh air was your only reason. It's good to hear you talk freely, though," Eleanor smiles up at me, "I always used to imagine what your voice would sound like. And now I know."

"You weren't worried?"

She crosses her legs at the ankle and leans forward, looking me in the eye, "That you'd leave for good?" she says, "No. Absolutely not. About your...emotional well being? Yes, just a little bit."

I can't help but give a weak smile at her frankness, "And why's that?" I ask.

"People don't just go for a walk for six hours unless something's wrong," she says, "And Sinclair hasn't been able to look anyone in the eye all day, which means he probably did something."

"No, he..." I trail off looking down her. And then, unaccountably, comes the truth.

"He kissed me last night, but it didn't mean anything, so he says at any rate. He was just trying to comfort me, so I guess I was an idiot to think that maybe he could..." I stop cold and glare at her. "How the hell do you _do _that?"

She tilts her head and looks up at me, radiating innocence and strength, "Do what?"

"Make me tell you everything!" I blurt, waving my hands in an absurd, frantic fashion.

Eleanor just laughs. A silence falls between us and she says, "So. He kissed you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I reply, stern despite the blush I can feel darkening my cheeks.

She surprises me by giggling, "Of course you do! So, do you care for him?"

"I...I can depend on him. And I can trust him a lot more than I thought I could. As for what I feel...I don't know _what _I feel. Half of my emotions, my thoughts are controlled scientifically. I've been altered from what I once was," I look at her, and though it hurts me to say it, I continue, "You aren't my real daughter, after all."

Eleanor nods, like she was expecting me to say that. She doesn't look unhappy, just resigned. She sighs, "Well, we are stuck this way, with familial ties, regardless of whether or not they stem from blood relation or preference. For the record, you've treated me better than most any other person I've ever known. And your body's compulsions can't be controlled any more than the ones conditioned within you by scientists. So I ask you again; do you care for him?"

I look down into her earnest, sweet face and cannot lie. i speak quietly, "Yes, Eleanor, I do. I think."

"He cares for you too, you know."

I try not to laugh outright, "He made it abundantly clear that he didn't."

"He'll come around," Eleanor says, "Have you eaten at all today? You must be hungry."

I try to deny it, but my stomach gives me away by rumbling, loudly. Eleanor laughs, "Let's go home, father. I'll fix you a late lunch."

She fits her hand into mine and, strangely, it makes me feel safer.

When we arrive back at the boarding house, Sinclair is gone and Tenenbaum is beyond angry.

"Where did you go?" She demands, "Herr Sinclair is looking for you, has been looking everywhere for hours, you've worried ze little vones!"

"I'm sorry, Brigid."

"Go upstairs and apologize to ze girls, you haf scared zem," She says, deflating a little. "Whatever made you leave, Herr John?"

"I suppose," I say, pausing, "That I'm still new to the feeling of freedom. The ability to feel what I want to feel when I want to feel it, and the ability to run off, even. My feelings got the better of me. Again, I'm sorry."

She narrows her eyes, and though the is about half my size, it succeds in making me feel threatened. She puts her hands on her hips and says, "Does zis have to do with Sinclair? Did he do somezing?"

I raise an eyebrow at her, "Why would you assume that?"

"I have seen ze way you two look at each other," she says, and apparently everyone but me has been wise to the things going on between Sinclair and myself long before I was even slightly aware.

"How long have you known?" I ask, looking between Tenenbaum and Eleanor.

"Since you sent Mimi to reconfigure the Vita Chamber," Eleanor says easily, "You didn't want to lose him, no matter what. You thought so quickly to save him, you were even more selfless and brave than I could've ever imagined. For me, you were obligated. I was your daughter, due to a deeply scientific bond, but for him...you had no obligation. Only compassion."

"I did not realize," Tenenbaum shakes her head, "Not until ve vere topside. The look on his face ven he found out you'd be able to talk again told me all I needed to know about how he felt. As for you, ven you dissapeared vithout a vord, this is ven I knew for you."

"Everyone knew but me," I shake my head with a slight grin. At least I can already see the humor in this.

"And Sinclair," Tenenbaum says, "In fact, he still seems unable to believe or accept it. Though he has gone to look for you."

"Maybe he's just left," I say softly, "Maybe he's just decided I disgust him, or that he can't deal with what's come to pass between us and is gone forever."

"No," Tenenbaum says, quietly, "He was worried about you. He vould not leave you."

"She's right, kid," Sinclair says from the doorway. "You and I need to have a talk."

Surprisingly, Tenenbaum steps in between us and says, "Ve vill eat first. No complaints. Dinner vill be cold soon. Eat, and zen talk."

Sinclair looks fit to protest, but the look Tenenbaum gives him silences him.

She sends me to summon the girls, and when I open the door to the first room, they are all sitting on the bed. They look up and see me, and all twelve burst into enthusiastic smiles, rushing me and grabbing my legs and waist, hugging me with great fervor.

"We thought you were gone!" A blonde one pipes up.

"I could never leave you girls," I say, mostly to comfort them. And then I find I really mean it. I'm not attatched to these girls, have no obligation to them, yet I wouldn't leave them behind without knowing they were safe.

I had fought Sofia Lamb's perception of me throughout the whole Rapture ordeal. And I'd saved Eleanor, Augustus and Tenenbaum out of some sort of emotional attachment, even dependancy, in the case of the first two, but to these girls before me, I owed nothing. They had not saved me, I had saved them, out of nothing but kindness.

In this moment, I realize how wrong Sofia Lamb was.

I am not a monster.

I am a human being.

And I wonder, with all these people that can see the good in me, why did I listen to the only one that called me broken and evil?

Dinner is a mostly silent affair, aside from the scraping of forks on plates. I have no idea what Tenenbaum has cooked, but it is pretty good. Then again, everything is pretty good when you've lived on stale potato crisps, Pep Bars and Arcadia Merlot for the better part of a decade. Then, she and Eleanor are ushering all the girls upstairs for baths and bed. A few of them are still afraid of the water, understandably. But Eleanor will likely bathe with them, or at least comfort them through it.

Between Sinclair and myself is a table littered with dishes and leftovers. I begin clearing them away quickly, without looking at him. It's cowardly, but at this point I feel I deserve to be less than brave every so often.

"John," he says, and he is taking the dishes out of my hands and wrapping me in his arms. He manages to make me feel small, even though I'm at least a foot taller than him.

"Where did you go?" He asks, softly. One of his hands rests splayed across my back, the other comes up to the nape of my neck, stroking. It's comforting. It feels right, somehow.

"Does it matter?" I reply. My hands both come to rest on his back, my head coming to rest in the crook of his neck. He smells like home, whatever that means these days, and I breathe him in without shame.

"Let's talk about this outside, sport. Whattya say?" he speaks into my hair. I nod and he takes a step back, his warm breath ghosting over my cheek as he leans back and pulls me toward the door.

There is a porch swing to the far right, knocking against the railing every so often. We sit on opposite sides and it creaks beneath our combined weight.

"Why did you play off what happened last night?" I say, finally breaking the silence. I assume being blunt is the best course of action.

He leans against the railing as I relax against the back of the swing as best I can, leaving about two feet of space in between us. Carefully, he extracts a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lights it, takes a drag, exhales. Then he speaks:

"Several reasons, kid. All of them still pretty prevalent ones, too. Luckily, I don't have to be well-to-do in American society any more, I have too much money to be bothered. But if I'm...with you, people won't exactly be willing to turn the other cheek. See, in Rapture, I could be pretty much any kind of person I wanted, even though that system was flawed. The problem in Rapture, with Ryan and Fontaine and even Lamb, though, was that they mixed their greed with their ideals.

"Ryan wanted his utopia, but he also wanted control of it and that didn't go over too well with people who wanted an equal voice in Rapture's operation. That gave birth to Atlas, Fontaine's alter-ego. A damn good idea, at that. Fontaine wanted money and power, but to gain it, he feigned morality, even pretended to be a damn hero, and that caved on him when he pissed the wrong people off. Lamb put her daughter before herself, but also before the people she claimed she wanted to liberate. The remaining citizens of Rapture were loyal to the cause, but desperate. A weak defense against anyone who chose to dismantle it.

"Me, I'm probably the worst of 'em all. I reveled in that society; it was capitalism at its best. I sat in the shadows and raked in the cash. I was sittin' pretty. And then I dabbled too far. Lethal plasmids, testing products on unwilling human subjects... I crossed a line and I didn't care for the consequences because it meant more cash for me. But I had people hurt, killed even, for my selfishness. And it's come back to haunt me. If I had known, I never would've-"

"I know," I say to him, holding up a hand, "But that's in the past now. Don't deal in regret, Augustus," I look him in the eye. We're not just talking about Rapture, here. Nothing will ever be that simple between us.

He crushes the butt of his cigarette beneath his heel and offers a hand to me. I take it and shake, gratefully.

"All we got any more is each other," he says easily. "And I'm not going to take that for granted. I don't apologize very often, but. I'm sorry."

The next day, we prepare for our flight to the Americas.

In the meantime, I do a bit of research on the disappearances of people who ended up in Rapture. A diver named John who had gone missing in the ocean near Iceland is relatively easy to find. Within one or two hours, I have all the information about me in sindicated newspapers. It's not much, but it's more than enough for my purposes.

For hours, I mull over the person I used to be.

Before Rapture, I lived in Michigan. I had friends and a family. I did a lot of recreational diving, but mostly in lakes or shallow water. The time I disappeared had been only my second venture into deep sea diving, and everyone suspected the worst when I didn't come back as scheduled. They sent a search party or two, but ultimately, they gave up. Hard to blame them, given that there are only so many logical options in the middle of the ocean, especially when no one knew my exact coordinates. There was no outcry for another search. There was a funeral without a body, a woman I assume to have been my wife crying at the forefront of a picture, a mass of people shrouded in black behind her. She's beautiful, but I feel nothing, no tug of recognition, no longing, no desire.

I realize Rapture took that away from me ten years ago. Everyone that loved me has greived and moved on with their lives. To go back now would be pointless.

For some reason, this is a relief. To think I'd have to face a life I couldn't remember and no longer felt drawn to was daunting, to say the least. Especially with Eleanor added to the mix.

We're packed and ready to go by the time I return to the boarding house. Tenenbaum takes the elder members of our haphazard family aside, excluding Eleanor, and talks to us about the people we'll be meeting at the airport in New York. She's got pamphlets, maps, our plane tickets and a sheet listing the information for each of the girls spread across the kitchen table. The miniature chandelier overhead sways slightly, providing a ring of warm light. The rest of the lights in the house are off as the girls rest up for the journey.

"They know of Rapture," she says, gesturing to a pamphlet that, ironically enough, reads: RYAN'S HOME FOR GIRLS. "If you recall, Andrew Ryan had a son?"

"_No. _Him?" Sinclair asks, incredulous, "Ryan's boy runs an orphanage?"

"His name is Jack. And yes, in a manner of speaking. More like a...vat is the term? Foster home. He and...Frank Fontaine, actually." Tenenbaum seems to visibly cringe after this sentence leaves her mouth. And with good reason. Sinclair's response is volcanic.

"Excuse me? That son of a bitch is still alive?"

"In a...manner of speaking. If you recall Atlas?" She asks and we both nod, "Vell, they are von and de same."

This is news to me but Sinclair nods, almost reverent, "And people called me a con man," he says lowly, out of the corner of his mouth.

"Jack...Jack more or less fell for Atlas," Tenenbaum says, albiet reluctantly, "And vas predictably heartbroken when ze truth was revealed. Fontaine offered Jack ze chance to rule Rapture vith him. Jack initially refused, but zen he realized he had a plan. He pretended to accept Fontaine's offer and vaited, intent to beat him at his own game. He used a hypnotize plasmid on Fontaine ven zey met, convincing him he'd always been Atlas, and Fontaine was more than happy to help collect ze rest of ze little girls before going topside and living together as a foster family."

"Serves the bastard right," Sinclair says.

"Poor Jack," I say.

Tenenbaum shakes her head, "It is a rare person indeed who comes out of Rapture as unscathed as him. You, Sinclair and myself are exceptionally fortunate, ze girls probably more so, as zey have more time to build new memories. Jack is...compromised, but happy."

"Which is why we have to get these girls to New York," Sinclair nods at her, "So they can all have a shot at a normal life."

"I am glad ve are all on ze same page," Tenenbaum says, "We leave first thing in the morning, so be ready to go and help ze girls as zey need it."

With that, we go our seperate ways to settle down, our last night in Iceland.

I go outside for a cigarette after our breifing. Nobody follows me, thankfully, as this is all a bit much to handle at the moment. Rapture never really dies, no matter how much of it is flooded or broken away. Someone always comes out alive.

And they live in echoes of how their lives should've been thereafter, if Rapture had never existed, but with the memories... the memories of grotesque bodies, misshapen from their misuse of genetic elixir. Of hulking once-men in diving suits, following their pretty little daughters with glowing eyes. A man that believed in the power of an individual, the man that overthrew him, the woman that rose in their wake, made desperate people take comfort in their inevitable demise.

Living after all that feels wrong, somehow.

Sinclair is asleep, his back to the door when I creep in about an hour later. The even rise and fall of his breaths is comforting. I fall asleep listening to it, creeping into my conciousness like waves onto the shore.

Eleanor being alive, that's not wrong. She's still just a girl. By all counts she still has a long and healthy life ahead of her, a life free of responsibility. Beautiful, vibrant Eleanor belongs in a world after Rapture. She belongs to the surface.

SInclair is another story. He was beyond willing to lay down his life for our safe passage out of Rapture, for freedom from life as a Big Daddy. His life had been prosperous. He bore the destruction of Rapture on his shoulders, but did so with a smile on his face, and a hope that it would pan out in his favor. It was only by chance, and my insistance, that Sinclair was still breathing - albiet fresher air - today. I haven't had time to wonder before now, but I am given pause in the late night silence.

Does Sinclair even want to be here, with us?

He really has sacrificed so much for our sake. I used to think it might have been for profit, then for absolution when profit became impossible.

Why now, then, when he could take his money and his remaining years and disappear into the night without a trace?

And why, for that matter, would I be here? I'm a skeletal monstrosity, the yellow-bellied remains of a half-baked defense project. My attatchment to Eleanor is still mostly ingrained in me, but she'd be alright if I died. I'm here because I want to be, because I've come to care for the people that escaped with me. Because Eleanor truly is my daughter.

If Sinclair's logic is similar to mine, maybe I've got nothing to be afraid of.


End file.
